One More Miracle
by aweirdhumancalledbawb
Summary: 9 years after Reichenbach, John receives a phone call that changes everything. Sherlock and Hamish are left to pick up the pieces of what's left of their life. Could an eccentric man in a bow tie be the answer?
1. A Call in the Night

It started with a call in the middle of the night. Sherlock snapped awake, but made no attempt to answer. He untangled himself from the bunched sheets. 'John.' He whispered, rolling over to face him. Their faces were so close that they were almost touching noses. Sherlock could feel John's sweet breath with each rise and fall of his chest. 'John,' He said again, 'Phone.' John's breathing hitched as he slowly swam towards consciousness. He didn't bother to open his eyes. 'Why don't you get it?' He muttered, but of course he already knew. _The Great Sherlock Holmes only texted._

John forced his heavy lids open, rolled to face the bedside table and clicked on the little lamp Mrs. Hudson had bought them. He sighed, and lifted the phone to his ear, turning back to Sherlock as he answered. Sherlock was watching him with a glint of curiosity in his pale blue eyes. He couldn't help but think how beautiful he looked with his dark hair made unruly by sleep. It stuck out in all directions, bouncing slightly as Sherlock cocked his head to the side, waiting for John to say something.

'Hello?' John croaked. The reply was almost instant. 'John,' A deep voice grunted, 'Listen, uhh…I'm sorry to wake you, but this couldn't wait.' It said.

'Hold on, who is this?' John's tone was almost accusing.

'Oh, sorry, it's Sergeant Newton.' The man said awkwardly. At that, John bolted upright. _Jack Newton, _his Commanding Officer in the army, calling after all these years after his discharge. It couldn't be good news.

'Yeah, so… what's the problem?' His voice cracked on the last word. He hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed.

After that, all the words seemed to meld together, just one long garbled sentence in Netwon's booming voice. _Army. Limp. Deployment. Immediately. Terrorism. Afghanistan. Doctors needed. Desperate. _The few words came through painfully clear compared to the rest. Words he thought he'd never hear again. They echoed, reverberated through his skull, like a bullet ricocheting. Thw thought made him shudder. He could feel a headache coming on, or maybe that was just fatigue. He didn't remember how the conversation ended. He just remembered finding himself, phone in hand, brought out of his worried thoughts by the monotonous beeping that meant that someone had hung up.

He turned back to Sherlock, phone still in hand, its metronomic beat the only audible sound in the flat. Sherlock was sitting upright against the headboard. His lean body was rigid, his jaw clenched so tight John could see the taught muscles in his neck. 'Well?' Sherlock said, his voice uncharacteristically strained.

'I'm going back to Afghanistan.' John said. Sherlock's steely eyes met his own and their coldness seemed to melt. 'They can't do that.' He protested. His brow knitted with anger. 'You were discharged.'

'Yes, well… they need me again, it would seem.' John tried to sound calm.

'How long do we have, then?' Sherlock's eyes burned into his own. In the dim lamplight, John thought he saw tears well in Sherlock's eyes, but he couldn't be sure.

'They want me to leave tomorrow.' After a moment's pause Sherlock's whole body went limp, slumping forward in defeat. His bony shoulders crumpled as he placed his head in his hands. He looked so helpless, John thought; just a mess of bones and black curls. Finally, a situation even the all-powerful Sherlock Holmes couldn't fix. Sherlock rolled his head back up to look at John, trying his best to be strong. 'What do we tell Hamish?' Sherlock's voice was all watery. John hadn't thought of that. It broke his heart, and it seemed to have broken Sherlock's too.

Hamish's face rose up to the surface of John's mind. Their beautiful son. God, he looked so much like Sherlock. Those same intelligent blue eyes, the same bouncy, dark hair. But, inside, he was like John. He felt things; he cared about people, he loved his dads… He was so young, so fragile. And John knew this would break him. His tears blurred the images running through his mind, burning away at the edges.

'Come here.' Sherlock voice was calm, comforting. His usual emotionless mask had returned to his face. John crawled into his outstretched arms, burying his face into Sherlock's warm chest. Then he allowed the tears to fall. Sherlock kissed him gently on his damp forehead, smoothing his sandy-blonde hair. 'We may not have long left,' he interlaced John's tiny hand with his own, 'But we have now.'

* * *

**AN: Hope you liked. Note: The crossover is coming! But not for a few more chapters. Bear with me, please. Review review review. **


	2. A family in Pieces

'Hamish, come here. Daddy needs to tell you something.' Sherlock tried to sound as casual as possible.

Neither Sherlock nor John had slept after the call. Instead they had lain awake, cherishing every precious second they had left together, locked in the tight embrace of each other's arms. And now, here they were; the cruel morning sun has arisen and it was time to break the harsh truth to their son.

'What is it Daddy?' Hamish smiled a crooked smile. _Just like John_, Sherlock noted with a sad smile. The boy's round blue eyes peered up at his father, filled with excitement.

'Why don't you sit down.' John said, gesturing at the little round table with its three wooden chairs.

'Okay.' Hamish chimed. Any adult would have grown to dread those words, but the boy sat down gingerly and looked up expectantly at his parents.

John and Sherlock glanced across the table at each other, unsure what exactly to say. How do you tell your child he may never see his father again? How could a six-year-old's mind even begin to fathom the gravity of the situation? The silence dragged on endlessly, but Hamish didn't seem to notice. He swung his tiny legs back and forth as he waited. In the end, it was Sherlock who spoke. 'Hamish, your father is going away for a while.' He said the words slowly, letting each one sink in.

'Where are you going?' The boy's eyes widened in excitement, 'Can I come?' John sat in silence, staring out the window, trying to compose himself. He could not let his son see him this broken.

'No, not this time. He's going somewhere dangerous.'

'Where is he going?' Such an inquisitive boy.

'Afghanistan.'

'How long will he be gone?' He asked with another lopsided smile.

'I don't know.' Sherlock looked down at his feet for a moment, trying to find the words to make him understand. John reached across the table and put his hand on Sherlock's. Then John nodded to him. It was time to tell the harshest of truths.

'Hamish,' Sherlock began, 'Your father might not be coming home.'

You could almost see the words running through his young mind. As each syllable sank in, his grin seemed to droop just that little bit more. 'Wha-What do you mean?' He stammered, his lower lip trembling. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand, readying himself, 'Because, son, I could very well die while I'm there.'

They could see their son shattering to pieces before them. Each tear that rolled down his pale cheek was like another cold shard of glass, stabbing into their chests. His pain was their pain. 'Please don't go.' He pleaded to John. 'I won't let you go.' And in that moment, John would have done anything to stay, anything. But he was helpless. His fate was decided. And there was nothing he could do to change it.

* * *

They arrived at the military base at noon. It was sunny, which seemed a cruel twist considering it had rained almost everyday of Sherlock and John's nine years together. They had spent the entire cab ride in silence, seated with Hamish between them. He had begged to come. The cabbie dropped them off at a landing strip, where a sea of uniformed men and women were saying their teary farewells.

'Well.' John said as neutrally as he could. His hands shook as he fiddled with a button on his shirt, 'I best being going then, eh?' He feigned his usual crooked smile. His son peered up at him with bleary eyes, mirroring that same sad smile. Hamish clutched onto the father's leg and buried his face into the camouflage pattern.

'Be careful, okay Daddy?' He mumbled into the fabric.

'I will be.' He promised, his eyes blazing as he fought to keep control. 'I will be.' He whispered, more to himself, looking up towards Sherlock.

'Hamish, I need to say bye to your father now, okay?'

'Okay.' Hamish released his grip and sniffled as he stepped back.

It was funny how John had changed. When they had first met, when they had first started to realise the extent of their feelings for each other, it had been an uncomfortable process to say the least. They had kept a safe distance in public, and limited their affection to the safe confines of 221B. But now, in their last moments together, John felt no embarrassment at all. All he could think about was how much he loved this man, and how much he didn't want to leave him.

He spent a while, staring from a distance, just drinking in the sight of him, trying to memorise each inch of his being. He was so tall, especially in that coat he was so fond of. The collared was frayed and battered from wind and foul weather, and their many adventures together. Yet it still stood up the way Sherlock liked it. God, how John would miss that coat and its dusty smell. His eyes flicked up to the scarf. The scarf. That long, slightly scratchy blue scarf. The one that matched his eyes perfectly. Sherlock refused to go anywhere without it. This was exactly how John wanted to remember him; in all of his mystery, beauty and etherality.

He walked slowly towards him, wrapped his small hands around that scarf and pulled gently so that he could reach those pale lips. It was not a lingering kiss, but he tried to pour all of his endless stores of love into it. Then they tore themselves apart, though they wanted that moment to be infinite, and settled for a tight embrace. 'I love you, John.' Sherlock whispered in his ear. John could feel the warm breath on his ear. He closed his eyes and relished in the moment. 'I love you too.' He whispered back.

Then he had to break away, before the goodbyes all became too much. John could feel the eyes upon him as he turned and walked away. He knew they were judging him, maybe even disgusted, but he found that he didn't care. He loved Sherlock more than anyone could ever hope to love another person, and no amount of disapproving glares could change that.

* * *

**AN: Okay I really hoped you liked this chapter...This one means a lot to me, but if you didn't that's okay too. As a child whose own father went off to military service, I really wanted to capture the whole experience as best I could. Reviews are always greatly appreciated.**


	3. The Waiting Game

It had been three months since John had left, and Hamish and Sherlock had heard nothing from him. They knew they wouldn't hear from him until he was on his way home; whether it be in person or in a coffin. They could only hope for the best.

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair. _Funny_, he thought to himself, _how quickly time passes when you are not aware of it. _Yet, when waiting for something, time drags on endlessly. His eyes flicked up to the little clock. John had bought him that clock to cover the bullet holes in the wall. His heart panged with the memory. Each second ticked by so slowly. Had seconds lasted so long before? He forced himself to look away and hoisted himself from his chair. He had to move, he had to find a way to pass the time. Bored. The word seemed to take on a whole new meaning. He saw the letters before him in his mind as they morphed and danced. He paced back and forth across the small living room, his coat billowing as he made each sharp turn. He needed a case. Desperately.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. He rushed to the door and swung it open eagerly. 'Hello Daddy.' A high-pitched voice said.

'Hello Hamish.' He replied, sighing just the smallest bit. Not a case, just his beautiful son. The only thing connecting him his missing piece. Hamish went upstairs, with his father close behind, and threw down his backpack. 'Is he coming home yet?' Hamish peered up at his father expectantly. He asked everyday, but the answer was always the same.

'Not yet.' Sherlock. Hamish nodded in reply. He had learned not to expect nothing. 'How was school?'

'A bit boring.' He giggled.

'Of course it was.' His father joined in laughing, but even then you could hear the sadness in his voice. Hamish had the reading age of an adult already, and the IQ of one too. Making macaroni necklaces and learning the alphabet was well below his capabilities. Yet his father refused to allow him to skip grades, not without John there to help with the decision.

John. Every thought he had always led back to John. Everything he did reminded him of John. Every time Hamish smiled, he thought of John. But he couldn't even remember John's face properly, not anymore, not even with his superior memory. In just three short months, time had eroded at his perfect face, torn away at it, until it was almost unrecognisable.

Sherlock dared another look at the clock. He did that a lot, almost habitually. Only 3 minutes had passed. He fell back into his chair with a loud sigh. Hamish mimicked him as he sat down in John's chair. God, he was so much John.

* * *

'Daddy?' Sherlock felt a tug his foot. He rolled over.

'Yes?' He groaned.

'I had a nightmare.' Hamish had tears streaming down his face, visible even in the darkness. He was clutching tightly to a teddy bear. John had bought him that bear when he was born, Sherlock noted. He felt the familiar stabbing pain to his heart. The pulled him awake.

'Come here.' He stretched out his arms. Hamish crawled into them and slid beneath the covers.

'It's okay. No monsters can hurt you now. I'm here.' Sherlock stroked his son's dark curls as he said it. His son was so warm against his chest.

'But it wasn't monsters, Daddy.' Hamish whispered, his body trembling. 'It was Dad. I saw him die.'

* * *

**AN: Okay, so this chapter isn't STRICTLY necessary to the story as a whole, but I wanted to write it. Tell me what you think. Reviews are like winning the lottery to me, only better!**


	4. A Storm of Fire

**AN: So this chapter was really hard to write. It means a lot to me that people are actually reading my work, and in turn I'm doing my best to write each chapter as soon as possible. **

**This is the song I wrote it to/imagined to be playing during the scene if it was a film:****_ watch?v=FGz4DsTmCSU_**

******_Glossary of Terms:_**

**IED-improvised explosive device**

**FOB-forward operating base**

**Daisy chains- many IEDs detonated by the same connecting wire**

**M1114- brand of Humvee: wikipedia/commons/2/24/Bulgarian_M1114_HMMWV_in_ **

**Buffalo- larger Humvee: **

* * *

John stared out the window of the M1114 Humvee, but there was nothing to see. All around the convoy, there was nothing but a vast expanse of sand in all directions. But John stared out the window anyway; anything to distract him from the fear and how heavy his gear was and how dangerous this mission was. He kept telling himself they would reach the FOB soon and everything would be fine. He promised himself he would be allowed to go home soon. He tore his eyes from the window and looked at the men around him, all clad in the same sandy coloured camouflage. He was a doctor, not a soldier, he thought to himself. He could feel a bead of sweat rolling down his back, but it was hot and unpleasant. It was always so goddamn hot is Afghanistan.

He wheeled around to look at the Buffalo behind him; far bigger than their Humvee, and safer too. The whole situation seemed completely unreal to him. It was as if his body was in the Humvee, but he was looking down on himself from above. He wasn't really there at all. His mind had never left 221B. There was a sudden jolt as the convoy came to an abrupt halt. John scrambled for something to hold onto. The men looked around at each other with furrowed brows. Something was happening at the front of the convoy. They all waited in silence for instruction, breathing steadily, but heavily.

They felt the explosion before they saw it. The grounded quivered beneath them, like a lifeboat in rough waves. They were helpless against it, disoriented by its tumultuous roar. Then the world turned to flames all around them as the IED detonated. John stared on helplessly as the front Humvee turned to flying shrapnel and hunks of flesh. The wall of flames before them was almost blinding, and John struggled not to blink. Someone beside him muttered 'Shit.' in a shaky voice. They were under attack.

A call came over the radio for John. They needed a doctor up front. John should have been terrified, but he found himself relieved. At least now he could help. Now he wouldn't feel so helpless. John exited the Humvee, supplies in hand, flanked by two others from his vehicle. His mind seemed to jump back into his body then, making him painfully aware of where he was and what he was doing.

'We're under fire!' The first man said to him, as bullets rained down upon them, as if it wasn't obvious. They kept moving, keeping low. John struggled to hold the weight of all his gear. They reached the first convoy as quickly as they could, the sand stinging at their eyes, and took refuge behind the skeletal remains of the Humvee. There were burnt corpses everywhere. The whole vehicle had been killed instantly, or so they thought. 'AHHHH.' Someone screamed in pain nearby. _A survivor_. John ran towards the sound, dodging more bullets as he entered the barren space outside the shelter of the wreckage. When the man saw John, he met his eyes with a pleading look. The damage was extensive. His whole body was badly burned, already blistering in places. There was shrapnel embedded deep into his abdomen, slicing through his layers of protective gear. But worst of all; his left leg had been entirely severed below the knee. John could see the bone piercing out the end, surrounded by pulpy, shredded flesh and skin. The man was breathing heavy, trembling all over, as the blood rushed from his wound. John remained calm, 'What's your name?' He asked, reaching into his kit for the tourniquet. 'P-Patrick.' He whimpered.

'Alright, Patrick. I need to apply this tourniquet so that you don't lose any more blood.' John didn't wait for a reply. He strapped it on and twisted the handle as he said the words. Patrick screamed in pain and John felt hot blood splash across his cheek.

'Th-Thank…you.' Patrick said with a sigh after the bleeding stopped. His eyes rolled back in his head as he drifted towards unconsciousness.

'Patrick, stay with me.' John yelled at him. Shaking him gently. Patrick's eyes snapped back to the front. For the time being, he was safe. John breathed a sigh of relief, though the relief didn't last long.

Only a few seconds later John noticed the line, just a little groove in the sand, like a snake print. He reached gently into the groove until he felt a wire. He tugged gently until it surfaced, and he could see what direction it was coming from. But it wasn't coming from one direction at all. _Daisy chains, _he thought to himself in wonder. All around them, in every direction, the wire continued, like a big circle surrounding he and Patrick. _Daisy chains; _they meant to soldiers what the black spot meant to pirates; certain death. There could be no escape. Patricklooked up at him, and John look back, saying sorry with his eyes. They could see the cylindrical structures at the ends of each wire, just waiting for detonation. _This is the end, _John thought to himself, and his mind wandered away from this place, back to his family. John had always heard of people's lives flashing before their eyes in their last moments, but he never thought it could really happen. Yet in his last few moments of life, he could see each moment with his family, like a montage, moving too fast to comprehend. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes as the images slowed and came to a conclusion with one final image of Sherlock's face, staring at him with his sad blue-green eyes. 'I love you Sherlock.' He whispered. Then he was consumed by the burning heat and light, as the bombs were all detonated in perfect unison.

* * *

As soon as the phone rang Sherlock knew something was wrong. He leapt out of his chair to answer it. 'Hello?' Sherlock answered with a trembling hand. He listened intently, his face an emotionless mask. Hamish looked at him expectantly, his eyes glimmering with hope.

'How?' Sherlock said, his voice cracking. He listened again, the mask melting away with each passing moment.

'Thank you for the call.' He hung up before the caller could reply.

There was stunned silence throughout the room for a few seconds as Sherlock crossed the room. Then with a fierce cry he ripped that goddamned clock off the wall to reveal the bullet holes beneath and threw it to the ground with all his might. It shattered loudly, splaying its facets across the carpet. Sherlock sunk to the ground, putting his head in his hands, and was rocked with sobs. Hamish had never seen his father cry before, and it terrified him. He collected up the broken shards of clock and gathered them into a pile.

'It's okay, Daddy. We'll fix it.' He said through tears, and hugged his father tightly while he cried.

* * *

**AN: Hope you guys liked this one. I got a lot of help with the military jargon from my father, so please note that everything is accurate. Reviews are the best gift I can receive. If you like this story, tell me. If you hate it with a burning passion, tell me. THE DOCTOR IS ARRIVING IN THE NEXT CHAPTER SO BRACE YOURSELVES PEOPLE.**


	5. Unexpected Arrivals

There were far less people at the funeral than Sherlock had expected; Sarah, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Donovan, Mike Stamford, even Anderson had showed, and John's own sister, Harry. Then there were a few other old friends Sherlock didn't recognise. But none of that mattered to him. No one else mattered to him but Hamish, the last thing left to link him to his lost husband. Yet he couldn't even look at his son, sitting tall in his tiny suit, his blue eyes staring blankly ahead. The 6-year-old still hadn't seemed to grasp that John was really gone. He kept waiting, looking around, expecting John to walk in at any moment and declare that he was alive.

Everyone was seated on plastic chairs, in a U-shape around the coffin. They were holding the service right there, next to his future resting place; John would have wanted his funeral to be outside. Sherlock stood up and moved to the head of the flag-covered coffin. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his coat pocket with a trembling hand. It was time for John's eulogy. He unfolded the page slowly; hoping that if he stalled long enough, his John would come back to him. But his logical mind knew it was impossible. He had seen the body, or what remained of it, and he knew it was true. John was dead. The words stung his mind as they sunk in, and he felt a wave of grief course through his body. He felt the tears taking form against his will, but he fought back. He couldn't cry here, he couldn't show how weak love had made him. He took in a final shaky breath and began to read, 'John Watson-Holmes was truly a remarkable man.' He stopped to look up at his audience. Mrs Hudson was hysterical. Hamish still looked blank. Even Anderson seemed to be struggling against his tears.

'He was a doctor, a soldier, a detective, but above all else, he was a friend, a husband, and a father.' Sherlock's voice was steady. He tried to distance himself from each word, numb himself to the pain. 'He was the man who taught me how to love.' At that, Sherlock heard Donovan's squeaky cry. He waited a moment for her to quieten, then he continued, 'And I-' He stopped, catching something in the corner of his eye. People. Lots of people. Not in funeral black; a sea of colour. Sherlock squinted, and the others turned to look.

A crowd of almost twenty was coming straight towards them. As they edged closer, Sherlock could see the signs they were holding, and it filled him with rage. 'Everyone stay where you are,' He told them. 'Sit back down.' Everyone was too stunned to object. The crowd began to chant, and he could just make out the words. 'GOD HATES FAGS. GOD HATES FAGS. GOD HATES FAGS.' They all shouted joyfully in unison. 'Hamish.' Sherlock said, looking down at his precious son, 'Cover your ears. Close your eyes.' Hamish did as he was told.

By then, the crowd were only a few metres away, and they stopped. The mourning group could see each of their faces clearly, and hear their thick, American drawls as they continued to chant. Sherlock had heard about these lunatic yanks. John had always insisted on watching the news every night after Hamish went to bed. 'What are you doing here?' Sherlock demanded, aiming the question at wiry-haired woman. The chanting continued behind her. She looked at him with beady eyes, 'We heard about your fag soldier dying in England on the news. We thought we would spread the wrath of God here too.' She gestured towards her sign that read 'THANK GOD FOR DEAD SOLDIERS.'

Sherlock cocked his head slightly. He towered over this crazy woman, yet he was unsure what to do. John had always been the one who dealt with these situations. He turned back to the group. They were all wearing matching shocked expressions, unsure what to do. Even Lestrade seemed out of his depth. Hamish was still doing as he was told, totally oblivious to the trouble at hand. 'Leave. Or we'll call the police.' Sherlock finally said in his most menacing voice, a voice he had previously reserved purely for Moriarty. And he'd died moments after. But this woman seemed unperturbed. 'Alright then,' She said in her thick accent, 'You do that. We'll wait here.' She turned back to he protestors and started up the chant again, even louder this time. Their every syllable was a tumultuous roar. 'GOD HATES FAGS. GOD HATES FAGS. GOD HATES FAGS.'

Sherlock turned and walked back towards the coffin, reaching into his pocket for his phone, well, John's phone. His heart twinged again. He dialled the police and held it to his ear. As it rung, he felt a peculiar gust of wind, blowing his dark hair into his eyes. As the wind grew stronger, it became accompanied by a whirring sound, like a creaking door hinge, getting louder and louder. The protestors just shouted louder over the top of it. Sherlock turned towards the sound and his phone dropped from his hand with a thud. A box, a blue box, was materialising from nowhere before his astonished eyes. Finally the chanting ceased died down. The woman with the curly hair glared at her flock. 'What are you doing!' She said. 'Keep going!' They shouted once more.

Sherlock could not take his eyes off of the box. The whirring had stopped, the wind had ceased, but still peculiar police box remained. He was about to approach it, when the door, with its two little paned-glass windows, swung inward. The mourners stared in shock, while the protestors remained focused on instilling the wrath of God. They were so focused, in fact, that they didn't even stop when a man came stumbling out.

The man regained his balance before he could fall and stood up tall, taking a moment to slick back his hair and straighten his bow tie. 'This is not 1953!' He turned to his box after a moment. 'Where have you taken me this time, old girl?' Then he wheeled back to the others, the tail of his dull purple coat dancing behind him. He gazed across at the coffin and then up at Sherlock. 'Oh. My condolences.' He said.

'Daddy? Who is that?' Hamish asked. His curiosity had finally got the better of him.

'I don't know, Hamish.' Sherlock replied warily, not dropping his gaze from the bizarrely dressed stranger. They struggled to hear each other over the roar of the picketers.

'Oh, forgive me. I'm the-Just a minute.' The man spun around to face the protestors and strolled towards them with his long, duck-footed gait. He clasped his hands clasped behind his back. Then he stopped abruptly in front of the leading woman with the crazy hair and calmly put a finger to his lips. A small hissing noise escaped and the whole group went completely silent. The woman opened her mouth to speak, but not a single came out. She tried again and the result was the same. Silence.

'Now. Where were we?' The man walked slowly over to Hamish. He seemed to forget there was a funeral in progress, or was choosing to ignore that fact.

'Who the HELL are you?' Lestrade yelled.

'I'm the doctor.' He said with a little smirk, 'And if I may ask, who is this?' He tapped the top of the coffin with his long fingers.

'You may not.' Lestrade glared at him.

'Lestrade, it's fine.' Sherlock nodded at him, 'Doctor John Watson. Killed in action two weeks ago in Afghanistan.' His voice was emotionless, almost scientific, like a medical examiner in an autopsy.

'Ooh. This sounds promising.' He practically danced over to his box. 'Oh, you beautiful thing you.' He placed a hand on the police box. 'Who is the wife?' He turned back to the mourning party.

'There is no wife.' Sherlock grumbled. He had seemed genuinely happy about John's death, and it unnerved him.

'Girlfriend then, surely? Big strong soldier like that.' The Doctor waved his hands around wildly as he spoke.

'Neither. I'm his husband.' Sherlock crossed his hands over his chest defensively. Was this man mocking him?

The Doctor opened his mouth and closed it again. His forehead became lined with wrinkles, as if he was thinking deeply about something.

'Right. That'll do.' He said, then his expression went back to it's childlike look of excitement, 'Come with me, we have no time to lose!'

'Why on Earth would I do that?' Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

The Doctor smiled a large, goofy smile. He had hoped Sherlock would ask that. 'We're going to get your husband back.' At that, Sherlock followed him. He was still not convinced, but any chance at all of getting John back was too great of an offer to refuse. He couldn't help but be filled with hope.

'What about me, Daddy?' Hamish tugged at his coat and looked up at him with teary blue eyes.

'You're coming with me, of course.' Sherlock smiled down at his son weakly.

'I-' The Doctor started to protest, 'Come on then.' He pulled open the blue box's door and disappeared inside. Sherlock reached down and grasped Hamish's tiny hand and together they entered the big blue police box.

* * *

**AN: Sorry guys I couldn't help it. I have always wanted to get the shut up the Westboro Baptist Church, and even better, have them shushed by a time lord. Hope this chapter isn't terrible! Review, review, review.**


	6. Into the Desert

**AN: Okay, I really am sorry it has taken me so long to upload. I've been in hospital, and I'm having surgery tomorrow, but after that uploads should become more regular. Anyway, hope you like it!**

* * *

'Welcome.' The Doctor waved his arms around wildly, grinning like a madman, 'to the TARDIS.' Little Hamish's mouth dropped open in awe. 'It's-' He squeaked.

The Doctor came over to him and kneeled so that they were at eye level.

'Yes, it's bigger on the inside.' He tapped a finger to Hamish's tiny nose and grinned. 'And your name is?' His voice was softer, soothing almost.

'Hamish.' The boy whispered.

'Right then, Hamish.' He emphasised the boy's name. 'And your father, I presume?' He ran up a set of stairs to a middle platform and fiddled with some buttons and levers.

'Sherlock Holmes.' Finally Sherlock spoke. He let go of Hamish's hand and his son went running up the stairs to get a closer look at the workings.

'What is this thing?' Sherlock asked.

'It's a spaceship. Kind of. I can travel anywhere in all of time and space.' The Doctor fiddled with some levers and buttons and the TARDIS burst to life with a whirring sound.

'Doctor, what's down there?' Hamish pointed to the hallway just out of his sight.

'Well. There's a library, a swimming pool, anything you can imagine really.' He mumbled, not looking up from the controls. 'But I would recommend that you don't go down there.'

He turned back to Sherlock, who was still standing in the same place as when he'd first entered, his face blank as he stared up at the roof.

'Mr Holmes?' The Doctor called to him. Sherlock seemed to snap back into attention.

'Yes?' He answered.

'What is the date of death?' His expression was sympathetic. He had to ask.

'Uh-the twenty-third of May, 2013.'

'And the place?'

'Camp Bastion, Afghanistan.'

'Thank you.' His serious demeanour melted instantly. He wheeled gracefully back around to the controls, his long coat flailing behind, and pushed some more buttons.

'Hamish, Mr Holmes, I would advise that you hold on to something.' He said with a sly half smile. He pulled down on the largest lever and the TARDIS lurched into action.

'Whoah!' Hamish squealed as he found himself falling. He scrambled to grab hold of the railing before it was too late.

They were flying, hurtling through space. Sherlock thought they might very well die, but he knew this man was telling the truth. And better still, if they didn't crash land, they would save John. There was no price too great to pay for getting John back. Or so Sherlock thought. One moment, they were hurtling through time, the next; they had all been thrown to the floor as they came to a sudden halt. 'We're here!' Sherlock heard the Doctor call ecstatically. As if it wasn't blatantly obvious.

'Hamish, are you alright?' Sherlock jumped to his feet.

'I'm fine, Dad.' A voice echoed through the TARDIS. He ran over to his son and helped him to his feet.

'Right then.' The Doctor jumped down the steps two at a time and pulled open the TARDIS door, 'After you.' He gestured them out with a goofy bow. Sherlock stepped out first, shielding his eyes against the blinding desert sunshine. He froze when his eyes adjusted.

'Hamish.' His voice was like ice, 'Get back inside. Now.'

'Why, Dad?' _Always so curious._

'Just do as I say.'

'What seems to be the problem, Mr. Holmes?' The Doctor stepped out behind them. He stopped, paralysed when he saw what Sherlock was looking at; they were surrounded on all sides by masked men. Men with guns.

The Doctor put up his hands in surrender, but he kicked his foot back and swung the TARDIS door shut. 'We come in peace.' He said to muffle the thud of the door. The leader of the bandits moved in closer, his gun pointed at the Doctor's chest.

'Don't move.' He said. Sherlock found that peculiar. They speak Farsi in Afghanistan, not English. The doctor seemed to read his mind, or maybe just his confused expression. 'Translation circuit.' He said with a tiny nod of his head.

'Who are you?' The man asked. His eyes were so dark they seemed completely black. Hamish clutched onto Sherlock's leg.

'We are just…tourists. Yes, tourists, exploring the desert.' The Doctor strolled towards the man as if there was no danger at all, waving his hands around wildly at the vastness of the desert.

'Liars. You magically appeared in this box! What is it? Some kind of military weapon?' He gestured to one of his men. 'Open the door.'

The man knocked the doctor's shoulder on his way past, but the Doctor smirked. The door would not open. Not for them. 'It isn't opening!' the servant cried.

'You are pathetic! Let me try.' The leader reached over and tried for himself. It still wouldn't budge.

Sherlock saw his window of opportunity open before him. Time seemed to run in slow motion. In one swift motion, he reached into his pocket and simultaneously grabbed the leader. In a split second he was facing the gang, with John's trusty Browning L9A1 pressed to the man's temple. 'Let us go or I'll shoot!' Sherlock yelled, but they looked at him blankly. They didn't care about their leader one bit. The closest man snatched Hamish by his scrawny arm. 'LET GO!' Hamish screamed, but it was too late. They were already piling him into their dark armoured van. 'DAD! DAD!' Sherlock could hear his son's scream as the tinted windows rolled up. He released the leader and fell to his knees. John's gun dropped into the sand.

'Give us your military machine, and we will give you back the child.' The leader said as he leapt into the back of the van and it sped away in a cloud of desert sand.

* * *

**AN: I hope you like it. I hope I didn't lose any readers for this one. If you're reading this, thank you for sticking with it this far, I really do appreciate it. Reviews are always welcome gifts. **


End file.
